Expletive
by The Qilin
Summary: PWP. Kanda. Oneshot. "And all humans had needs. What, did you think he was celibate? Kanda may not give a f**k about many things, but he does not pretend that he doesn't have needs. He just never calls attention to it."


_DGray-man belongs to Katsura Hoshino and I'm only borrowing ideas from her._

_Character: Kanda_

_Warnings: swearing and masturbation_

* * *

**Expletive**

"Fuck."

It was a common word in his vocabulary. Fuck this, fuck that. Fuck you. Fucking everything. Particularly when he was angry, but even when he was in rare good mood, at least ten times a day he will say "fuck" to something or someone.

Such was the way of Yu Kanda, Exorcist of the Black Order. He was no saint. He prayed no prayers. He believed only himself and in fate. He hated too many things and liked only a few things. He lived to fight, and fight he would. He killed Akuma. To this day so far, he was the only one to kill a Noah and live to tell the tale. People called him a demon, the devil, dark, evil, et cetera. Was he human? They asked each other this quite often.

Of course—why would you ask something so fucking stupid like that? He breathes and pulses. He eats. He moves. He sleeps. If anything, saying "fuck" proved he was alive like the next person.

And all humans had needs. What, did you think he was celibate? Kanda may not give a fuck about many things, but he does not pretend that he doesn't have needs. He just never calls attention to it.

Consider today; another mission, another task completed. The white-haired moyashi was good for one thing; he didn't have to stay at shitty hotels or hijack trains as often. Into the Ark, out the Ark, kill the Akuma or find the Innocence, back into the Ark, back to HQ, report, and he was free. He isn't bone-weary. He even had time to try and meditate.

There's a time to sit still and think, and another time to do something. Kanda was not impulsive for the most part. Why waster your energy on that? Plans were always better. People were stupid because they got in his fucking way. Like idiot Allen Walker or idiot Lavi. Or his idiot General.

Too many idiots.

He could always leave and disappear, maybe. Fuck the Order and their purposes. But what of his own purpose? What would that be?

Some days, like today, he thinks too much. It ruins his meditation and he leaves in a cloud of dark that people could sense and avoid him.

Consider today; it went badly. Too many Akuma. Too many Finders died. He ruined yet another coat. He storms back and reports and then sits in the showers for a good hour. He nearly takes off the beansprouts head but Lenalee kicks him. Then Lavi steals his hairtie and he leaves in a flurry of beautiful hair and scowling feature.

Fuck everything today. Especially the stupid rabbit. He slams his door shut and paces.

Maybe he ought to meditate…no, he's too angry. Train? That would mean dealing with people. Sleeping requires him to actually stop moving.

Kanda breathes and holds it. Blood hums underneath his skin, matching his heartbeat. He stops gnashing his teeth long enough to unclench his jaw. He rakes his fingers through his unbound hair.

"Fuck." If only he had ordered a drink before coming here. He badly needs one after such a shitty day. Enough of people.

In one swift move he pulls his shirt off and tosses it over a chair, intending to find something more comfortable to wear. Hair soft like feathers brush his back and arms.

_She had softer hair._

_…and softer hands and lips…_

His shoulders stiffen. Fuck, did he need this now? He can't quell the images, vivid like a waking dream or vision. They curl around his mind and trace the contours, just like how hands once traced his body—

A glance over tells him that he locked the door properly. Laundry day was tomorrow. His golem was turned off, squashed somewhere underneath a bag. What did he have to lose? He wets his upper lip, sighs, and pulls off the rest of his clothing. He lies on his back on his bed, fabric touching his bare skin. His hair skims over his skin from the motion of his movement, tickling his skin until it settles flat.

Kanda counts his breaths until he reaches ten, licks his hand from fingertip to palm, and presses it over his groin. Desire rises, quickly and easily. Desire is of course everyone's friend and needs little prompting; one touch would do it. He squeezes tightly once, twice, and then finds a rhythm of stroking. He keeps his eyes closed. His other hand alternates between clenching and relaxing, like his abdomen. From base to tip he caresses, sometimes gently, sometimes roughly, until he is quite stiff. Toes dig into fabric as he palms himself, his breathing no longer constant. His heartbeat pulses loud in his ears; he matches his stroking to it.

For a few seconds he can almost feel another body next to his. The press of skin to skin, of another's hand on him. He utters a low moan and swallows. When he feels the first bit of moisture dripping out, he stops to roll over. Fabric rubs him, cool and different from his hand. He reaches past his cock to touch lower, to the smooth expanse of skin just underneath his testicles. Heightened senses spark as his finger just _brushes_ the area and he barely manages to hold it in.

_Fuck_, he thinks. He's close. He holds himself again and adds to this by pressing himself against the bed. It squeaks only a little, but nothing loud or distracting.

Rock, rock, squeeze, stroke, release, and repeat. Sweat gathers. The fabric is wet and warm, but his body is warmer. He bites his pillow, shoulders arching and buttocks tightening. A rhythm no longer exists; he simply tries to prolong this while he can.

_"Yu…are you close?"_ And then a whisper from the past teases his ears. His hand falters and he jerks his hips slowly. The agony of waiting, waiting…

_"Just like that—"_ He opens his eyes just as he pushes himself over the edge after a little more pressure. It explodes in a mixture of sensations that tingle from head to toe and he crushes his pelvis against his hand and bed.

"Ah." Kanda, usually graceful, gets a mouthful of cotton and half-smothers himself as he strokes the last of his climax out of himself, breathless and sweating. Dampness covers his fingers and legs. He touches himself a few more time before he wipes his hand on the blankets. The anger was gone. The tenseness he didn't know he had also left. There was only him, cotton, and the smell of himself on the sheets.

He rolls onto his back and kicks the top covers off. The warmth still lingers and so he does not bother to find new coverings as he closes his eyes to sleep.

"Fuck this day," he thinks before tiredness fully settles in and he's out.


End file.
